dreamers often lie
by I Write Sins Not Tragidies
Summary: "Young Lydia Martin may have been a dreamer, but as she got older, those dreams disappeared. They were, much later, replaced with nightmares that woke her up in a sweat, her own blood covering her hands and arms, crusting underneath her nails. There was, however, someone that taught her dream again. Stiles." :stydia one-shot:


Young Lydia Martin was a dreamer, to say the least.

She would build forts with the dining room tables and blankets and pillows from the living room and would sit there for hours, staring at the pictures of castles and princesses and princes, even if she could barely read some of the words that came along with them. She would beg her parents to read to her before bedtime, and tell them of whatever her tiny, high-functioning brain came up with that day at the dinner table, and they would laugh and glance at each other with a mix of adoration for their daughter and what she now realizes is uneasiness. At night, her mind would be overrun by dreams of anything, from knights in shining armor fighting dragons to a giant giraffe singing the blues.

She was like any other kid her age, brushing her hair like Rapunzel and "painting" her nails bright pink to match the color of Sleeping Beauty's dress as she danced the night away with her prince.

But then, when she was six, her parents sat her down on the couch and knelt in front of her and told her that _they were getting this thing called a divorce, which means that mommy and daddy won't be living together anymore_. She may have been in kindergarten, but she knew what the word meant; a kid in her class told her all about it. She didn't tell her parents this, because she could tell this was a very serious moment where you don't correct your parents, like at grandma's house or during Take Your Kid to Work Day.

Her mom then asked if she wanted to live with mommy or daddy, and her father started screaming at her, and Lydia grabbed her backpack and rushed upstairs to her bedroom, curling up under her pink covers in her pink bed in her pink room, crying and then lying there, listening to her parents scream back and forth, to the "_why would you ask a six-year-old that?"_ and the _"she needs to realize the world is like this!_", and then falling asleep.

After that day, she would look at her picture books less and less, until one day she slid it in her bookshelf for good. She would no longer tell her parents of her stories at the dinner table, not only because it was just her mom and herself, but because the stories were hardly there anymore. Every night, her dreams would recede more and more, until, gradually, they weren't there anymore.

Young Lydia Martin may have been a dreamer, but as she got older, those dreams disappeared. They were, much later, replaced with nightmares that woke her up in a sweat, her own blood covering her hands and arms, crusting underneath her nails.

There was, however, someone that taught her dream again.

Stiles.

* * *

It all started one day, before the winter formal, before Peter Hale and before she even thought werewolves existing were a possibility and before she went absolutely crazy.

The five of them- Jackson, Scott, Allison, Danny, Stiles, and herself- we're sitting at lunch, Stiles retelling the dream he had the night prior to. She was only half listening, mostly concentrating on how annoying he was.

He finished his story, waiting for some kind of feedback from his peers. Without looking up from her salad, she remarked, simply, "That's dumb."

He makes a surprised sound, but doesn't seem mad. "C'mon," He makes wild gestures with his hands as he does about one hundred percent of the time. "Like you've never had a crazy dream."

Rolling her eyes dramatically, she sets her fork down and looks at hm with a challenging appearance. "I don't dream." She purses her lips, watching as his soft features become confused.

"What do you mean you don't-" He starts, but he's interrupted by the shrill sound of the bell, dismissing them from lunch. He looks around and sighs as she raises her eyebrows, cocking her head before taking her tray in her hands and leaving.

She can sense him staring at her as she sashays away, and she feels suddenly insecure, putting more swing in her step, as if to make a point.

_Nothing's wrong with me because I don't dream._ She insists to herself, flipping her hair back. _So what?_

That night, before she crawls into bed, she does something she hasn't done for years; she prays.

"Um, hi." She mumbles under her breath, unsure if she needed to speak for this to work. "I, um, was just wondering if I could maybe dream tonight?"

She doesn't dream, but she wants to for the first time since her parents split up.

* * *

Months later, when she was deep in these nightmares that scarred her both physically and mentally, she found herself on the front porch of the home of none other than Stiles Stilinski.

If you had asked her a mere six months ago where she would go when she needed comfort, she would answer her aunt who lives in Michigan before him. But in the past months, he has always just been there, when Jackson and Allison and her mom, the people who are supposed to support her, weren't.

So here she is. Waiting, with her arms crossed, shifting from side to side, as to keep her warm. She curses herself for wearing such a thin nightgown, thinking that maybe it would prevent her from waking up sweaty, and she didn't even stop to grab shoes before she left, let alone a coat.

She's slightly startled, for whatever reason, when Stiles opens the door, and she jumps- as does he when he realizes who's at his door.

"_Oh_, u-uh, Lydia!" He stammers, running a hand over his hair and behind his neck, a blush forming on his cheeks. She doesn't roll her eyes, as she usually does- she instead stares at him, trying to seem as collected as possible.

"D-do you mind if I come in?" She's taken aback by the unusual shakiness of her voice, blinking away the tears forming in her eyes. "I-I just..."

He's stuck in a daze for a moment, staring at her with a concerned look, before snapping out of it with a jolt, nodding wildly. "Uh, yeah, of course, come right in." He steps aside and she rushes past him, arms still crossed tightly across her chest.

He quickly ushers her to his couch, sitting her down and wrapping one, two, three blankets around her shoulders. She doesn't realize she's shivering until he mentions it.

"What happened?" He asks as he inspects her blood-encrusted hands, wiping at them with a wet paper towel she's not sure was there before.

"I-I..." She gulps, on the verge of a breakdown. "I had another nightmare."

_Another, as if you've told him about them before._ She scolds herself, but he doesn't notice.

"Do you want to talk about what happened in it?" She likes how he doesn't straight-out ask what happened. How he doesn't force her to share, although she kind of wants to.

She shakes her head all the same, though. He'll think she's crazy. He'll laugh at her, and then probably admit her into a mental hospital.

Really, she knows he would never do something like that. Jackson, maybe. But not him. Not Stiles. It's not like she hasn't noticed the way he acts around her. It's not like she hasn't noticed how extra nice he is to her, how he looks at her, how incessantly he tries to impress her.

He nods, and she expects to see disappointment in his expression, but instead sees understanding.

"It's okay," He speaks softly, and he feels warm beside her.

There's a long moment of silence before he speaks again.

"You know," He murmurs, and she wonders if he's speaking quietly for her or if he's just trying not to wake his dad- if he's even here. "I used to get nightmares a lot. And whenever I would get them, I would think about good dreams I had, and then I'm usually okay."

She wants to scream at him, about how these aren't normal nightmares- these are different. These are making her punch in mirrors and take midnight- emphasis on _midnight_- walks in the woods and wake up, screaming and sweaty, in the middle of the night.

But she holds back, because he's trying to help, and it's sweet, it really is. He's sweet. She doesn't know why he's being so sweet, because she can't remember the last time she was sweet to him.

"I don't dream." She reminds him, although she doesn't expect him to remember that, from all that time ago. "Good dreams, at least." She adds.

His mouth is agape for a moment, but he closes it quickly and nods. "Oh, yeah, I forgot about that." He looks up at her, eyebrows drawn together. "Do you really not dream? At all? _Ever?"_

She hesitates, but then shakes her head. "I mean, I used to..." She gnaws on her bottom lip. _I can't believe I'm telling him this_. "But then my parents, um, split up and I just... _Stopped_." She stares down at the carpeting of his living room with blank eyes, and then meets her eyes with his brown ones. "How do you do it? Dream so often?"

He chuckles lightly, and then shrugs. "I dunno," He gives her a meek look. "I just... I'm not much of a realist."

She drags her gaze away from his, but she still feels his on her as she curls up, resting her head on the arm of the couch. She feels it until she eventually falls asleep minutes later.

The next morning, she's awoken by the sound of pots and pans falling on the ground. She jolts up, breathing heavily, and looks around frantically to see Stiles in the kitchen, sheepishly looking at her, a waffle iron in his hand.

"I'm so sorry," He rushes over to her, still holding the waffle iron. "I didn't mean to wake you up." He notices her expression and lays a hand on her arm. "What's wrong? Did you have another nightmare?"

She has to steady her breathing before she can shake her head and answer. "No," She stares at him with wide eyes. "I had a dream."

* * *

She's sitting, cross-legged on her bed, her Latin homework in front of her. She translates the verbs easily, cocking her head to the side as she glances over them. Lately, she's cherished her homework; it's a nice distraction from all the drama lately. Her nightmares may have reduced, but they were replaced with things that she can't remember ever thinking were even existent.

She looks to her door when there's a knock at it, mumbling, "Come in," She's both surprised and not when it's Stiles who shows up, looking meek as ever as he pokes his head through the door.

"Hi," He gives her a grin, and she feels her heart swell. Everything he's been doing lately has just been... _Adorable_, for whatever reason.

"Hi," She repeats, and moves to the side, patting the seat beside her, gesturing for him to sit. He hesitates, seeming taken aback, but quickly moves towards her, sitting with one leg under the other.

"I, uh..." He doesn't meet her eyes, instead looking down at his lap. "I was just making sure you're staying here tonight."

She raises her eyebrows, nodding. "Uh, yeah, I don't have any plans. Why?"

He laughs, as if he found himself foolish for asking. "Um, because it's a full moon and everything." He looks up, still smiling. "You know, dangerous and everything."

In the past few weeks, she has gotten many urges to just... _Kiss him_. Whether it's when he offers to carry her books or watching him excitedly cheering on the lacrosse team he rarely plays on, she has just wanted to go up to him, grab him by the t-shirt, and kiss him.

But she's yet to feel this urge more than she feels it now.

"I'm staying here, don't worry."

Their eyes stay locked for a few seconds, and she can practically feel the tension, drowning her. _Fuck it_, she thinks, and she leans down and presses her lips against his.

He's shocked, at first, and she's not surprised when he doesn't respond for a few beats, but then he's kissing her back. She wraps her arms around his neck and his hands are at her waist, and he's a different kisser than anyone she's ever kissed before. Jackson, Aiden, everyone she can remember were intense kissers- they left her lips bruised and her breathing heavy. But Stiles is different. He's soft and gentle and hesitant and _passionate_, and she's already hooked.

It's brief, and they pull away with their hands still around his neck and at her waist. They look at each other for a moment, and then he speaks.

"You..." He laughs somewhat triumphantly. "You have _no_ clue how long I've been waiting for that to happen."

She giggles and kisses him again, this time longer, more confidently.

She falls asleep with her head on his chest, the television on, a grin on her face.

She has dreamed for every night since.

* * *

_**a/n: so i've spent the past three days watching this show, and i became incredibly interested in stydia (((along with daniel sharman in general, but that's beside the point))). i decided to write this, which is the longest thing i've written in a long long long longlonglonglonglonglonglong time. i hope you enjoyed my first attempt at a teen wolf fic, let alone a stydia one!**_


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